


clean slated state

by neonosito



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beverly Marsh & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Breaking Up & Making Up, Childhood Sweethearts, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends With Benefits, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rating will change, temporary break-up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-07-29 12:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20082523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonosito/pseuds/neonosito
Summary: "Sorry, sorry, I don't know. This is just…" Stan chews his lower lip and pulls on his left sleeve. "Strange. You're like a ghost. I never thought I’d see you again.”Bill doesn’t understand what his motive is at the moment - understanding Stanley Uris is an art, something he hasn’t practised in years - but he knows one thing.He’s been thinking about him.And that’s enough.Or;Two childhood sweethearts learn that not even seven years and thousands of miles could keep them apart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone! you might know me from my old ao3 account, royalstanley (its still there, but i wanted a fresh start). ive been sitting on this for a while and ive finally pushed myself to write it!! im hoping to make updates bi-weekly or monthly (depending on how much university is kicking my ass). i have no idea how long this is gonna be - it has a lot of different elements and im not sure what ill add/take away as i go along. but anyways, i hope you enjoy it!
> 
> thanku so much to gusdapperton and stanleytoziers on tumblr for being the best and encouraging me!!!!
> 
> title is taken from a song by the altogether, which i think summarises the plot of this fic very well. you can find the playlist i made [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6dzOUoObffj1Ds8yZOTFRj?si=DpGdtjfrRP2pMJCuyEpZWg)
> 
> (quick warning - this chapter has descriptions of stans compulsions, which include picking/biting his skin. the descriptions arent very explicit, and wont be a main focus in any other chapters).

Hot weather in Derry is never what you would call pleasant. The sun was either barely there, meagre rays as warm as your breath, or beating down so relentlessly you’d wish for winter again. 

Today, the population of the town were suffering with the latter.

Stan could feel the sweat seeping through his white socks, each step making him grimace. He’s never handled heat well - the few holidays the Uris family had been on ended up with him having sunstroke and lobster-red skin. Regardless of the insufferable weather, the street is filled with chattering students, the constant hum of their conversations tuned out as Stan focuses on the firm steps of his feet on the pavement. The familiar streets close to his own home are appearing. 

_ One, two, three, four - jump over the crack on the fifth tile outside Mrs Wright’s house, avoid her very annoying dog yapping at the gate. _

His backpack bounces with every move, and Stanley is reminded of the ever-looming presence of school. Senior year has left his brain like a machine more than anything else. Wake up. Go to school. Lunch. Walk home. Ignore any offers of plans from his friends. More work. Dinner. One hour of family time. Sleep. Repeat.

It was made worse with the year he spent away as such a sickly child, but he refused to stay in that place with Henry Bowers (repeating his senior year yet again) instead of pacing himself.

_ The letter is due any day now _ , he thinks, steps dull in the back of his skull. Beverly got hers last week, an excellent portfolio giving her a resounding yes from Cincinnati.

"I'm so happy, Stanny," she'd whispered into his neck, the envelope clutched in her hand cutting into his skin as he squeezed her tight. The wet of her tears ran hot down his shirt, and he didn’t mind for once. 

Stan was ecstatic for her in that moment, he really was. But Beverly didn't have a home to leave as much as a sparse bedroom, and she didn't have parents to leave as much as-

Well.

She didn’t really like to talk about it. 

Worn red brick enters his vision as he turns the corner at Mr Gallagher’s house, the Uris’s white post box positioned proudly at the gate. A soft glow is coming from the bottom floor windows - they’re open, letting out the smothering heat, and light jazz is playing in the kitchen. A smile tugs at the corner of Stan’s lips. 

The front door opens with a soft  _ click _ , open and ready for his return, and the smell of his father’s cooking floods his senses. Some sort of sauce is being made, perhaps. 

He unties his laces with care, placing the pristine canvas shoes next to the neat row of his parent’s shoes in the hallway. His jacket hangs right next to his mom’s woollen cardigan and his father’s winter coat (both unused in this weather, but Stan brought his own to school simply out of habit). 

“Hi, mom.” She’s seated in her usual chair, cosy with a mug of tea pulled close to her chest. There’s a variation of  _ Real Housewives  _ on TV _ ,  _ something Stan has never been able to keep track of. Their constant arguing makes his head hurt. 

“Hi, sweetie!” Mrs Uris twists around in her seat to face him. “How was school?”

Stan shrugs, playing with his backpack straps uncomfortably. “It was school.”

She didn’t need to know about the struggles in english class, his face red when he asks Ben and Bill for advice on his language homework, and the hours spent in the library with Mike poring over history textbooks-   
A small crease forms in her brow. 

Or, maybe she already knows. 

“Well, your father is in the kitchen. I think he has something for you.” She wiggles her eyebrows. 

He nods absent-mindedly and follows the smell of good cooking. 

Mr Uris is hunched over the stove, stirring a red sauce and humming along to the music that Stan heard earlier on the radio. Pasta is softening in a pan nearby. He looks up at the sound of Stan’s quiet steps and nods to the counter beside him, still following along with the soft jazz. 

There’s something crisp and white laying on top of the marble. Stanley’s throat dries, and his tongue feels useless in his mouth. In the top right is a logo printed with dark ink, the impression uneven and faded in places. He worries at his lip. 

“You know we’ll be proud of you no matter what, Stanley.”

The sauce bubbles and spits in the pot. He feels a hand ruffle his hair good-naturedly, but he screws up his nose and squirms in irritation, eyes fixated on the envelope. It’s substantially thick - a good sign, perhaps a welcome pack rather than just a rejection. He handles it like a precious jewel, cradling the paper in his hands gently. 

Stan’s phone buzzes against his hip.

**Bill <3** : get home safe??? :)

The corner of Stan’s mouth turns up at the illuminated message.

**Stanley** : Yeah, sorry I couldn’t walk with you today. Was in the library with Mike. 

He tucks the envelope under his arm as he types.

**Stanley** : It’s here. 

A minute’s pause.

**Bill <3** : u want me to come over???

**Stanley** : I’ll come to you. 

The envelope slips easily into his backpack. He murmurs a quick goodbye to his mother on the way out, his steps a little quicker than usual despite the heavy weight on his chest and in his bag. 

Stan uses his bike a lot less, now - their adventures have changed from riding around the streets of Derry aimlessly to using each other as aids for studying. It groans in protest when he kicks up the stand and wheels it from the side of the house to the gate. He secretly mourns the loss of how it used to feel beneath him as a thirteen year old - the rigid seat was only an excuse to stand and get higher,  _ higher,  _ the wind a hindrance but feeling so sweet and cooling on his face, on the damp curls collecting around his forehead. When they’d come together as a group, almost as one, their conversations would meld together in a mess of laughs and swears while they travelled to their destinations. Stan could tell who was in front of him by the way they rode more than anything else: Beverly, hands not on the bars and pedalling lazily. Richie, cutting through the group to flit between conversations, always just a little bit clumsy (not at first glance, but if you were as perceptive as Stan and knew Richie as well, you noticed). 

Mike rode like he came out of the womb knowing, his turns fluid and his bike well taken care of. Eddie always had two hands on the bars, but hesitantly, as if he had them ready to reach for his inhaler or pills at a moments notice - leaving his movements stiff (especially when he broke his arm). It seemed as if Ben had read up on the whole process before attempting it, as he followed every rule of riding to the letter, even gesturing when they turned a corner, the group’s collective turn signal. 

There’s not much about Bill and Silver that hasn’t been said before by just about all of the losers, but it’s worth repeating. 

It was an extension of him rather than a means to get around. The effort needed to begin pedalling was apparent, but once Bill was going, he was  _ gone.  _ In Stanley’s childish brain at the time, he could’ve sworn his friend was flying, soaring above the rest of them, and he couldn’t bring himself to feel jealous. His calf muscles flexed each time he pressed down on a pedal. His whole body lurched back and forth with the bumps in the road, but he never, ever slowed down, just exhaled shortly through his nose and carried on. When Stanley sometimes found the wind was pushing against him, it only ever propelled Bill forwards.

He was never at the front of the group because his bike was the fastest. It was because he  _ belonged  _ there. 

The spell breaks when Stan accidentally thumbs the rusty bell, the dull ringing snapping him out of his reverie. 

His thighs burn as he pushes on the resisting pedals. His hands sweat and slip on the handles. He quickly realises that he no longer has the stamina of a young teen, but continues on the path to Bill’s house, only ten minutes from his own. 

The Denbrough house is, in a word, lifeless. Though it’s identical to the rest of the buildings on the street, even Stanley’s own, it seems grey in the already dreary world of Derry. All of the windows are pitch black, curtains firmly shut, except for one in the top left. Stan kicks down the stand of his bike and lets it rest.

He doesn’t bother to say hello to Zack or Sharon anymore. They’re usually not home, anyway, and the best case scenario is a clipped greeting, the worst is Stan being completely ignored. As he predicted, it’s completely barren, Bill’s father likely at work, and his mother in some undisclosed location (whenever Stan asks, Bill presses his lips firmly shut and pretends nothing was said - though he does note the empty wine bottles in the fridge). The grand piano adjacent to the living room is almost grey rather than black due to the gathering of dust. Stan walks over, his steps light, and presses down firmly on a key.

Out of tune.

He briefly recalls his weekly lessons here when he was around ten - his parents weren’t willing to pay for a tutor until Stan proved his dedication, and Sharon was happy to teach for free. This didn’t bother him in the slightest. It meant he could spend more time with Bill, and she was a patient, incredible teacher. She praised the placement of Stan’s hands and how quickly he picked up the chords. 

The house was bright then. Bill would sometimes sit on in the lessons - he was completely tone deaf, his mother giving up on him long ago, but would nod along with the pieces and smile at Stan encouragingly. Stan (naturally) flourished with the praise. 

Then more often than not, there was Georgie. Hoisted up onto his mother’s lap, pressing random keys and interrupting Stan’s finger exercises.

Happy.

Alive. 

His door is sealed shut, and has been since the family had given up hope on ever finding him again. It’s plain aside from a tattered piece of paper taped in the center: a sign declaring it to be Georgie’s room, accompanied with sketches courtesy of Bill. Stan runs his hands over the paper, feeling how it warped under the pressure of wax and pencil. 

He knocks softly on the wood and brushes the tips of his fingers against the doorknob. 

No response, of course. But it never hurts to try. 

There’s an array of takeout cartons on the kitchen counter than makes Stan's skin itch. Pizza boxes stacked on top of each other, congealed cheese seeping out of the sides, off meat causing him to flare his nostrils in disgust. 

_ When you have negligent parents who substitute pocket money for love, this is the product,  _ Stan muses, pointedly turning away and heading for the stairs. Soft golden light leads him to the only welcoming room in the house. 

Speakers are playing the music of some underground indie rock band from a show Bill dragged him to a few months back. He smiles at the memory - Bill yelling along and bouncing to the songs, Stan standing behind him and fixating on how concerningly sticky the floor was, and how it was probably ruining his favourite shoes. 

Said concert attendee is splayed out on his bed, sketchpad in hand. The sun is streaming in through the window, making his hair a bright red and shedding light onto the paper. It’s a hand study of some sort. 

“You need to iron your sheets.” He blurts out. “And your shirt.”

Bill jumps at the noise, then relaxes at Stanley’s presence. His smile is blinding, the sun making him glow all over like a god, and Stan resents school for keeping him away from this boy day after day. 

“I missed you t-t-too,” he grins. Stan rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“Should we just get this over with?”

“Jesus, Stan, i-it’s not like we’re on our wuh-huh-ay to the guillotine.”

“I know, it’s just-”

“A lot.”

“Yeah,” he responds lamely. He sits down onto the pillowy bed and straightens out the creases on the sheets, folds up Bill’s worn tartan blanket and hangs it over his desk chair. There’s no real need for pleasantries or to catch each other up on their day. Stan thumbs the straps of his backpack, feeling the rough texture under his skin. The sound of the zipper is obnoxiously loud in the softness of the environment.

Bill sets down his sketchpad and reaches over to his bedside table. His envelope is slightly more weathered, smudged with grey and black. He’s been working on a charcoal piece in art class for the past month or so. The seal is unbroken, but it’s clear he’s been tempted. 

“You ready?”

“I think I’m gonna shit my p-p-pants.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Stan tucks a thumb under the seal, opening it carefully, reverently. Bill practically rips the thing in half in his haste. 

_ Dear Stanley, _

_ Congratulations, you have been admitted to Illinois State University! _

_ On behalf...students… _

_ Admitted...BS in Accounting...Fall semester… _

Bill’s letter falls in his lap. 

_ Dear William, _

_ Congratulations and welcome to California State University! _

Stanley feels - something. Elation, panic, fear. Probably all three. His eyes scan the text a few times over to check it’s legitimacy, his finger traces the words “congratulations” and “successful.” 

This is his reality now. He’ll be packing up his things - his bird books, his photo albums, leaving his parents behind for the sake of an education he’s worked his ass off to obtain. 

This is good.

This is good.

This is  _ good. _

“You’re happy, right? This is good.” He’s not sure whether he’s talking to Bill or himself, but he’s speaking it into existence regardless. The silence is too much - even for him. Bill nods, head down. 

“It’s juh-j-just...California...Illinois…”

Stan hums in understanding. He slides his hand over the newly straightened sheets and rests it so their pinkies are brushing. 

“We can handle the distance. It’s  _ us. _ ”

“Us,” Bill echoes. He appears a little distant. He’s looking past Stan rather than at him, and his left hand is crushing the letter. 

Stan reaches over and cups Bill’s jaw, gently guiding him so their eyes can meet. He caresses his too-hot, sweaty skin, tracing his trembling lips with his thumb. Bill’s shining eyes drift shut. His breathing slows. 

Stan has always been very averse to touch, even with the best of friends, so much so he couldn’t even hold Bill’s hand without cringing on their first date. He considered it so intimate an act - offering your body to someone else, even platonically, skin so close together you were practically one? The feeling of another’s hands exploring Stan’s, when it was only him that knew the softness of his own palms, the cracked and bitten skin around his nails? Giving over even a small part of himself was too much at the time. 

That proved to be a problem when he learned that Bill craved touch, leaned into each brush of body against body like a cat. His whole being practically hummed with delight when he received a hug from Mike, or a kiss on the cheek from Beverly. Contact was natural, easy, even though he’d been deprived of it all his life. 

“I don’t mind,” Bill had said earnestly when Stan couldn’t bring himself to grab his hand. “I juh-huh-ust like being near you.”

Even though it has been three years since that day, he still prefers to initiate affection, and usually only when they’re alone. But he doesn’t mind when their knees knock against one another as they sit on the couch, or when Bill rests a hand on his waist as he walks him home. 

The hand cupping Bill’s jaw falls down to rest on his shoulder, and Stan feels the bed creak under his weight as he leans in to close the space between them. 

His lips are soft against Stan’s bitten, dry ones, and he feels a reprieve from the ache of them when Bill’s hot breath graces the irritated areas. The album playing fades out and leaves the room a little emptier. All that’s left is the thud of his heart, so strong he can feel it in the back of his throat, and the small sighs that fall from Bill’s mouth that he loves so much. The very real presence of all of these things only emphasises what a large gap they’re going to leave when they no longer call Derry home. Bill’s cluttered, bright room, his music, his strong but gentle hands carding through his hair as they kiss. They’ll be thousands of miles away, frozen in time, or growing steadily.

Without him. 

When he returns, they’ll be there. However, like a torn pair of jeans, you can sew up the holes but they won’t fit like they used to.

Stan squeezes his eyes shut harder and forces himself to forget. He forces himself to believe in himself as much as Bill believed in his words. He lets his mouth fall open and deepens the kiss, clutching at his boyfriend’s waist, clinging onto him like a weight keeping him from floating away. Floating into the reality that he’ll eventually have to confront.

But not now. Not when Bill is kissing the base of his neck softly, his nose brushing against his skin and making it tingle-

_ Crack! _

Mother nature has launched an attack against the smothering heat, and thunder shakes the house. Stan only just catches the way Bill freezes as lightning flashes across his face. Rain, hard and violent, lashes against the windows, the open ones letting in droplets that decorate the carpet. 

Storms are still difficult for Bill. 

Time doesn’t erase grief, or memories, and such a simple thing brings both back in a flurry of wind and rain. 

Stan can feel blunt fingernails digging into his sides, and Bill’s quickening breath. Comfort is not really his expertise - his words are too blunt and dry, and he usually leaves people feeling worse rather than better. It’s even more stilted when someone he cares about is hurting. It’s too much pressure and responsibility. But he tries. He strokes the back of Bill’s head in regular, soothing motions.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, “let’s-”

Stan gently pushes on Bill’s chest, encouraging him to fall. 

They collapse onto the bed, and Bill instinctively burrows into Stan’s side. His eyes are tightly shut. His jaw clenched. The tension radiates from him like a coiled spring. 

“You’re wearing the cologne I bought you for your birthday. Finally.” Stan remarks. Anything to distract. Anything to get that pained look off of Bill’s face. Bill huffs out a short laugh. 

“It’s ex-puh-puh-pensive. Didn’t wanna w-w-waste it.”

“Couldn’t find it in this wasteland you call a bedroom, more like.”

Another strained laugh. Stan frowns out of sight of Bill. When his boyfriend is nervous or sad, he retreats into himself, scared of how his words will come out. Jumbled? Quiet? Will they not reveal themselves at all? Excessive talking, he can handle - he’s known Richie for most of his life, for god’s sake - but Bill’s already closed off emotions paired with his clipped responses make him sweat. 

So he holds him. He tries to show he cares through tracing circles on his hips, putting an arm around Bill’s broad shoulders and squeezing. All he receives is a contented hum. But it’s something. Something that doesn’t make Stan feel completely useless. 

He shifts a little. His arm is tingling from it being wrapped around Bill so tightly. There’s a small noise of protest.

“Don’t go,” Bill mumbles, voice barely distinguishable. His face is hidden in Stan’s shirt. “I c-c-can’t-”

Stan shushes him gently. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

“Promise?”

He sounds so small, so fragile. Nothing like the boy Stan used to think he was. Infallible, a pillar of strength. Big Bill, the kid with a bike as fast as lightning and words so strong not even a stutter could undermine them. 

You learn who a person really is when they’re at their most vulnerable.

Stan thinks he prefers this version of him. 

“Promise.”

Bill relaxes in his arms once more. His lashes flutter briefly, then eyes fall shut. 

Stan counts the freckles on his skin, vast and travelling down his face to his chest. When he occasionally stayed at Bill’s house and couldn’t cope with the emptiness of it all, leaving him wide awake and uncomfortable, he’d catalogue the minute details of his boyfriend’s face to send him to sleep. His lashes are a dark red to match his hair, and they cast a large shadow against the white of his skin. His nose is a little crooked from a scuffle with Richie a few years ago. There’s a scar on his lip, which came about when he fell off of the top bunk during the time he shared a room with Georgie. He has a shadow of a beard now - a very recent development - and his jawline is more pronounced, all of the baby fat gone. Wisps of tousled hair are obscuring his brows. Stan catalogues the multitude of features, saves them for later, as he does with most things. There’s always new things to discover with Bill,  _ about _ Bill, and he never wants to stop. 

Time passes as fast as the water that hits the ground. Bill’s breathing is mellowing out. It’s deep and steady as opposed to shallow and quick. The rain has not relented, but Bill is blissfully ignorant. Stan presses a kiss to his temple and rises. 

He ventures out into the deafening silence of the rest of the house. Still empty, and still cold. As he passes the kitchen he gathers the pizza boxes and deposits them methodically, needing something to do with his hands. His skin doesn’t feel like his own. The letter in his backpack still feels as weighted as it did earlier. Stan is alone with his thoughts again, and he doesn’t enjoy it. 

Remove old pizza- 

California and Illinois are 2,000 miles apart.

Flatten-

Who knows if either of them can afford to come home for the holidays. Bill works an inscrutable amount of hours at the local convenience store, but even that paired with his parent’s pity money doesn’t help much. Stan was told not to get a job to focus on his classes. Which was probably a well-intentioned mistake, in hindsight. 

Fold-

Will Bill even want to come home?

Put in trash. 

The clear counters grant him some peace for a moment.

His bike looks even more messed up than before, the rain still lashing down and making the seat so slippery Stan can barely sit down without falling off. He forgot his coat in his haste to leave his house. The water burns, harsh and unforgiving against his skin, making his arms feel tender and weak. His feet slip on the pedals when he sets off down the road - the departure is clumsy and Stan can feel himself unable to ride in a straight line. He’s almost certain the tyres haven’t been changed in years. There’s no traction, he’s barely reached the street between Ben and Beverly’s house before he can feel himself tipping over then falling, making contact with the concrete and just narrowly missing slamming his head against the curb. Grit and water seep into his trousers and already soaked shirt, the sudden pain and cold making him gasp and wince. His arms and legs, exhausted by the strain of the few minute ride, just about manage to hoist him up so he’s sitting up on the pavement. A drain is nearby. This leaves his canvas shoes soaked due to the steady stream of water. His upper lip curls in disdain at the foul smell of dirt and garbage left in the street. The black and white world of Derry is turning upside down, his limbs aching from the sudden impact with the floor, and the rain continues to pour, just as the wheels on his bike keep spinning. His knees are sore, and they scream for attention, battling against the other sensations travelling along his body. His belongings are splayed out on the ground. 

The letter is peering out of his backpack. He forgot to close it before he left. Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid.  _ It’s been desecrated by drain water and dirt. The ink is a weak grey as opposed to a strong black. Stan can feel the hot tears welling up before he can stop them, and he can’t even distinguish between them and the rain, they’re both falling down his face and blurring his vision- 

Stan sobs quietly, his choked off pants only heard by him through the violent weather. He turns his body inwards, desperate to conserve the little heat he has left in his body, but unable to focus on anything but his internal conflict. He tugs on his matted curls in frustration. Digs what is left of his nails into the palm of his hands, leaving crescent moons indented in his skin. The raw wounds from where Stan has been picking at his fingers sting from the exposure to water. There’s people everywhere, and yet he feels invisible. Like someone could walk right through him and not even bat an eye. At least two cars bump into his bike as he tries to control his breathing, and their wheels kick up water and soak his trousers even further. Disgusted looks pass over their faces when Stan’s inconvenient emotions get in the way of their apathetic lives.

He doesn’t bother apologising. They’d have forgotten him as soon as they turned their head away regardless.

Stan opts to wheel his bike home rather than ride it, not trusting the thing anymore. It will be tucked away in the garage and never used again, he decides. Maybe Eddie can fiddle around with it. Use the parts to fix up something else. The sun is coming back with a vengeance, the storm leaving as quickly as it came, and Stan at least appreciates the fact that his shirt will dry out and Bill will have some peace. His shoes squelch with each step. There’s a pounding in his skull, completely unrelated to the fall. The walk back home is a blur of pain and flurried thoughts. 

When he arrives, dinner is being plated and the TV set has been turned off. Music no longer plays. 

“Stanley? Oh, honey, you’re soaked!”

“Is everything okay?”

Stanley closes his eyes for a brief second.

He thinks of Bill’s fear. His hope. His trust in him.

He pretends. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill really likes his new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!! im back sooner than i thought with a self indulgent piece of fluff!!!  
i wrote this in the space of around three hours and it isnt in the original plan, so its pretty sloppy. you dont need to read it to understand the rest of the plot, but itd be cool if you did!  
special thanks to noe for just being the best friend i could ever have!! i love you, thank you for supporting me <3  
you can find the playlist for the fic [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6dzOUoObffj1Ds8yZOTFRj?si=DpGdtjfrRP2pMJCuyEpZWg)

Abrasive primary colours decorate the small walls of a classroom in Derry, Maine. They’re mostly concealed by a poster of the week's star student, shaky paper cut-outs of numbers going all the way up to twenty, and a shelf filled with worn books. Around five tables or so take up the floor space, six chairs to each. 

At 10:30am, in the back table to the left, Richie Tozier makes a joke and Bill Denbrough laughs too loud. He claps a hand over his mouth abruptly to try and stop it, but-

“William!”

His shoulders sag. Richie sniggers next to him. 

“To the front_ . _You can sit here.” The teacher gestures towards the only empty seat in the room. The occupant of the seat next to it doesn’t even react, just continues to complete the sums in front of him. Bill squirms uncomfortably, unwilling to leave his friend. 

“_Now! _”

His eyes downcast, he snatches his one chewed up pencil from his desk and trudges up to the front reluctantly (he may pull back the chair to sit in it just a little too slowly to be spiteful). 

His new neighbour has finished his work sheet. His hands are on his pale thighs, and he’s tapping out a steady rhythm as his eyes scan over the scratchings on the paper. Bill admires his set up - three freshly sharpened pencils in a row, all equally spaced apart, a brand new eraser, and a ruler. As the teacher drones on again, talking about someone not putting the crayons away properly in their assigned trays, Bill leans over so his mouth is close to his classmate’s ear.

“H-h-huh-hello.”

The boy rears back at the sudden voice. He narrows his eyes a little, but not in a mean way. He seems to be observing him. Then, he puts a finger to his lips.

“Shh.”

Bill is left speechless as the boy turns his back on him, listening intently once more. 

“Good work this morning, everyone! Time for a break!”

The small class of children fall over themselves to leave the room, Bill and Richie running over to the seesaw to claim it before anyone else does. Richie is just a little bit heavier, so he can push them off the ground better - which is why everyone asks to play with him during break time. They rock back and forth on the slippery wood, both of them attempting to throw the other off for kicks. Bill hangs on for dear life as Richie delivers a particularly hard blow, and when he whips his head around to see where he’s going to land on the ground, there’s a familiar figure in the distance. Sitting alone. 

“Who is thuh-huh-that?” He gestures vaguely towards the sand. Richie makes a “huh” sound and follows his finger. Richie knows everybody, but he’s not exactly _ friends _with all of them. They kind of associate with him through force. He brightens when his eyes settle on who Bill is referring to. 

“This is Stan the Man,” Richie says when they reach the sandpit. “He lets me borrow his pencils when I lose mine.”

‘Stan the Man’ looks up from his small sand sculpture. It seems to be a castle, and he’s adding details with a stick. “You _ steal _ them,” he responds accusingly, pointing the stick in his general direction. His voice is unwavering, strong, his face set in stone. 

And Richie, of course, cracks up. Bill feels a little tingle of fear run through him. 

That is until Stan responds in kind, his expression twisting into something joyous. 

“And this is Big Bill.”

The boy squints, similar to how he did in the classroom. He rises from the sand, the grit sticking to the backs of his legs. When he reveals his full height, it’s apparent to everyone that he towers over both Bill _ and _Richie. 

“You don’t look all that big.” The corner of Stan’s mouth twitches up. He appears a little smug.

Richie howls and slaps Bill on the back. “He’s got your number there, Billy!”

He feels like he should be a little upset, his friend and a near stranger making fun of him, but the dynamic feels right.

Stan is alright.

“You can play with me tomorrow,” Stan decides abruptly, even though Bill didn’t speak. He sits back down onto the sand and slips back into his sculpting like nothing happened, humming to himself as he adds a door to the castle. 

The next day, Richie isn’t allowed to come outside for lunch. He called Rebecca Hollis ‘fuckhead’ then knocked over a tub of scissors, which resulted in dire consequences. That leaves Bill alone in the vast playground, wandering aimlessly. He doesn’t really have any friends outside of Richie - he can’t spit out a sentence fast enough to make any, and it just so happens that Richie talks enough for the both of them anyway. 

The only other kid who seemed to entertain his company was Stanley. For the rest of Bill’s ‘punishment’ he enjoyed watching the way he worked. His handwriting was a little scratchy, but he wrote with purpose, each stroke of his pencil confident. When Bill couldn’t think of an answer to his paper, Stan would whisper it to him when the teacher turned her attention to the other side of the classroom. He’s almost tempted to act out of turn again so they can spend more time together. Outside of this invitation to play, at least.

Bill finds Stan in the same position as before. He’s created another castle, but it’s a lot larger than yesterday’s already. Stan only vaguely acknowledges his presence with a smile (Bill discovered previously that he tends to block you out when he’s focused), but it still makes him feel like his presence isn’t completely insufferable. Their knees knock together a bit before Stan shuffles away.

“I’m trying to figure out how many windows the castle needs,” Stan says, as if he could sense Bill was going to ask. 

“C-c-cuh-huh- maybe you shhh-sh-should just do four? It’s easy.”

Stan huffs. “No. This castle has over eighty rooms. It wouldn’t make sense for there to be only four. How could you see out of all of them? Get a stick. You can help.”  
Bill feels...strangely honoured. He takes a stick from the ground and eyes the way Stan sits, mirroring him. When he ducks down Bill can see a small, blue disc nestled in his blond curls. It’s pinned to his head securely and matches his perfectly pressed shirt. 

“Wh-wh-what’s that?”

“It’s my…” Stan searches for the word. Bill isn’t even sure he knows it himself. “Yarmulke.”

“Yar-mul-kuh.”

“_Yaa- _mul-kuh.”

“Yar-muh-kah.”

“_Yaa-mul-kuh. _”

“‘S what I said.”

Stan rolls his eyes and conceals his smile by getting closer to the sand. 

They eventually settle on ten windows per side - not too excessive, just enough for a castle as grand as this. Bill takes extra care with each one, adding details such as curtains and a ledge.

“Are you an artist or something?” 

Bill genuinely thinks about this for a second. “N-no...though my muh-muh-mom does get mad at me for u-u-sss-ing up my crayons sss-so fast.”

Stan hums. “You should be.”

They decorate the castle with leaves and pebbles, and after half an hour of lunch, their masterpiece is finished. It’ll be destroyed by the end of the day, but it was theirs for a short while.

* * *

Bill _ really _ likes his new friend. 

He likes when he tags along with him and Richie when they go adventuring around the playground searching for cool rocks and bugs. Though he never wants to touch them, he’s good at pointing out the insect’s real names. He seems to know a lot of things that no one else cares to know about. When they play, Bill observes that Richie is great, probably his best friend, even, but he's all elbows and knobbly knees and buck teeth and loud laughter and occasionally Bill needs to just. Breathe. 

That’s what Stanley is for him. 

A heady dose of oxygen. 

Though he can't put that into words at seven, of course.

Bill is in awe of him - he joins in when Richie does impressions if he’s poked and prodded enough, and (though he’d never admit it) they’re _ better. _Stan tells confusing jokes that he doesn’t really get, but his giggles are so infectious he just has to join in. He lets Bill finish a sentence rather than finish it for him like the teacher, even his classmates every so often. 

When Richie goes off to bother his other friends and he has Stan all to himself, they’re secretly the best days. 

They go on the swings together, and Bill is more than willing to push Stan as much as he wishes.

“Higher, Bill, higher!” He’ll yell, laughing wildly, kicking his legs in the air with reckless abandon and making the chains twist and wobble. Bill runs to join him on the adjacent swing and if they get it _ just _ right, they’ll be swinging in time with one another, and then they’re _ flying. _All that’s visible is the sky and Stanley, and that’s enough for him. 

Stan even offers to teach him math - Bill finds solace in the tattered books in the classroom, not numbers, rendering him useless when it comes to this kind of work. Richie is naturally good at every subject, but can’t teach anything. He just mumbles clumsy suggestions through his sandwich that Bill doesn’t understand. It results in a headache and crumbs on his homework. 

Conversely, Stan will sit in the classroom with him during lunch and explain everything in his calm, smooth voice, and he’ll tick the right answers with a glittery purple gel pen and Bill glows with the praise. They eat together on the small tables after Stan has decided their lesson is over. Bill, with his hastily made peanut butter and jelly, and Stan, with his tuna. He waves it in front of Bill’s face tauntingly when he grimaces at the smell. There’s times when he even has a little salad prepared in a tub, which he cuts up with a plastic knife and fork into small, precise bites. But never any sweets.

Stan shyly confesses Mrs Uris doesn’t want him to get cavities, so he’s never allowed candies, but his favourites are the boiled ones. The fruity kind especially.

The next day Bill spends his weekly pocket money on a whole bag of them. He doesn’t feel bad about it, not once, because seeing Stan’s delighted face as he pops another strawberry sweet in his mouth makes it all worth it. 

The worst days are when he doesn’t come in at all. There’s a gap at the front of the classroom, and Bill glares at the empty space. He resents whatever sickness has taken his friend away from him, even for a few hours, and although Stan doesn’t like hugs, he’ll accept a little high five when he returns the next day. He usually comes with thick leather bound books - taken from his father’s study, he divulges - and there’s sprawling pictures of animals and nature. Bill runs his hands over the glossy pages even though he can’t read most of the words on there. They sit for as long as break and lunch time will allow, existing with each other. 

Their time together soon extends to out of school. Stanley begs his father to allow Bill to come along on a bird-watching trip. They sit on a bench together in the hazy woods and wait patiently, and every ten minutes or so Stan murmurs the name of the bird that’s appeared. Bill, with a thick wad of printer paper and a HB pencil, tries his best to sketch every one of them. He comes to genuinely enjoy the whole ritual. Wishes it was more than a weekly thing. He’s not necessarily interested in the animals themselves, but he enjoys the quiet of it all. Stan’s measured breathing. The scratching of his own pencil. There’s no need to create conversation. And sometimes, when Stan is relaxed enough, their shoulders touch. It feels almost like a prize, something he had to earn. 

It’s worth the effort. 

* * *

“I thuh-th-huh...I think you’re r-r-really cool.” They’re not actively pushing the swings, just sitting as the wind sways them. 

Stanley stops the motions with his foot.

“No one’s ever called me cool before.”

“N-n-never?”

He shakes his head. Toes the dirt with his shoes. 

“Richie, one time...but I dunno when he’s making a joke or not.”

_ But who wouldn’t think you’re cool!, _ Bill wants to say. _ You know so much about birds, and care about them lots and lots! You knew what to do when I scraped my knee on the pavement last week! You’re the fastest runner in the whole class! _

“But I don’t think I care anyway. My dad says that it doesn’t matter what the whole world thinks of you, as long as one person thinks the world of you.”

“Your dad i-i-is clever.”

Stan puffs out his chest proudly. “He is.”

And then his face breaks out into one of those wonderful smiles that takes over his face and Bill is smiling back and it’s _ so nice _ , he wants, _ needs _ this day to go on forever and ever, his childish optimism actually believing it will. 

But the bell rings, insistent and piercing.

“Race you to the door!”

Bill giggles and nearly trips over his own feet as he goes to follow. Stan’s hair bounces when he runs, and he’s looking behind him and grinning excitedly. 

Bill sprints until his legs aren’t his own. He chases that laugh, that face.

Stanley, his new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: staruris

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: staruris


End file.
